What you see pictured above (snapped by me, with my cameraphone in Times Square) is but one outcropping of an epidemic that’s overtaken New York City: The spread of knockoff baseball caps emblazoned with “NY” logos, designed to look just enough like official Yankees or Mets gear to pass the glance test.

Seriously, I’ve seen these hats all over the place — subways, on the street, in clubs… Frankly, I’d be embarrassed to be seen wearing one. They’re downright shoddy-looking.

I’m guessing the only reason Major League Baseball (and any other sports league) isn’t filing infringement lawsuits is that those chunky-fonted logos are just distinguishable enough to not be considered credible copies of their obvious inspirations. But come on — there’s no mistaking their appeal, funky colors and patterns aside. They’re faux team colors for $5 off the street, versus the $20-and-up for the real deal.

Madonna’s got a new album out, so that means there’s an expectation of a new “reinvention” look/style for the Material Girl. Past iterations of this impulse brought us lingerie-as-outerwear and vogueing in the 80s, and dominatrix-couture in the 90s — so I guess we’re due for an infusion of Madonna-guided fashion sense.

If her promotional history is any guide, her recent mini-concert at midtown Manhattan’s Roseland Ballroom was the tip-off for her latest direction: She’s anointing the sweatsuit as the uniform of lifestyle hipness.

Why? Because it’s what you wear for where the new musical ground zero resides:

While hardly a groundbreaking aesthetic choice, it makes sense. As New York nightlife, once synonymous with transcendental exuberance, becomes a thing of the past, the most popular place to pump a dance floor anthem is no longer on the dance floor. One of the few destinations where a wide cross-section of the city goes to hear a mix of hip hop, techno, and house music 24/7 is the gym. Equinox is the new Paradise Garage, and Madonna — her finger firmly on the pulse monitor — knows it better than anyone.

Interesting theory. I’d be more convinced if the nouveau health clubs featured in-house mixologists, spinning the latest phat beats for the gym rats. That wouldn’t make much sense, since most people keep workout time to their own personal earbuds-delivered rhythms; but I guess someone’s listening to the piped-in house music.

Another reason why I have trouble accepting the nylon-tracksuit ensemble as dominant clubwear: It reminds me of nothing so much as something The Fat Boys used to cruise around in. And they didn’t do it because they were body-conscious.

It’s a bit of a hike, but I’ll have to keep Larry’s Barber Shop, on the northern fringe of Hell’s Kitchen, in mind for my next haircut. Not only will I get a new ‘do, I’ll also get a chance to watch a random mobster movie while I wait.

From the mirrored reflections of the talking heads in his tiny shop on 57th Street near 10th Avenue in Manhattan, [shop owner Larry] Babizhaev receives political opinions, financial advice, sports commentary and other news between haircut and tip.

Along the way, some of his customers started recommending films like “The Godfather,” “Goodfellas” and “A Bronx Tale.” “I just got hooked,” Mr. Babizhaev said.

He began spending a good portion of his tips on mob movies and “anything to do with gangsters.”

Providing a DVD to watch is definitely preferable to some inane snip-snip chit-chat. Only snag: I’m not sure I’d be satisfied watching just a snippet of a movie. But then, I wouldn’t want to spend two hours in a barber shop just to see the complete “Pope of Greenwich Village”, either.

Weardrobe is an online, largely phototag-driven clothing-catalogue community, designed to create a huge virtual fashion closet via the aggregation of millions of users’ wardrobe choices.

Not really my kind of thing.

But I found out about it by peeking at the guest list for tomorrow’s Jelly coworking session in Brooklyn, which I’m attending. Weardrobe founder Suzanne Xie will also be there, and so I’d love to pitch the following add-on to her site:

Weirdrobe. Like, weird items of clothing, or donned combinations of such, that elicit puzzlement and awe from onlookers. Or something like that.

Hey, I’m a sucker for puns. Weardrobe got the ball rolling, so I’ll give it another push.

As the New York Rangers get set to embark upon Round Two of the NHL playoffs, I can’t think of any stranger soap opera material than news of Sean Avery seeking out, and landing, an internship at Vogue Magazine.

Avery, who makes $2 million a year with the Rangers and has cavorted with starlets since his days with the Los Angeles Kings, initiated the contact with Vogue editor Anna Wintour.

“He is ridiculously obsessed with fashion,” Avery’s publicist Nicole Chabot told ABCNews.com. “He loves it more than anything in the world. It’s something he has always wanted to do.”…

Though his assignments are “evolving,” Avery will go to Paris Fashion Week with international editor-at-large Hamish Bowles, according to Chabot.

Presumably that Paris trip is scheduled for after June; Rangers faithful would be less than pleased to lose Avery’s agitating skills in the midst of a Stanley Cup run.

I can only guess that this timing is designed to encourage mindgames among upcoming playoff opponents. No one wants to get pushed around by a budding fashion-mag internist…

Many’s the time during my college career when I’d walk all over campus barefoot. I wasn’t alone, and it wasn’t just the granola contingent, either — lots of students took advantage of the Florida climate and terrain to regularly feel the ground against their soles. No harm done, and in fact, it probably helped keep the feet strong and healthy.

But that was college. These days, the idea that the human foot is more harmed than aided by footwear is a little hard to swallow, despite the alleged historical background:

[New York Magazine write Adam] Sternbergh calls the ubiquity of footwear a “conspiracy of idiocy.” He points out the probability that at no point did any shoemaker say, “Let’s design something that works with your foot.” In the Middle Ages, for example, people began wearing shoes with higher heels to avoid stepping in other people’s excrement. Today, high heels are considered sexy. Whatever their reasons for wearing the shoes they wear, people don’t usually consider whether a shoe actually works with their foot, he says.

Given the daily barrage of ground-level threats in the big city — various debris, unforgiving surfaces, elements, other people — I’d say the mere protective covering provided constitutes a shoe that “works with your foot”. Preventing damage to the footsies makes human mobility that much more efficient. After that, you can worry about details like gait and support (which is what ends up happening with orthopedic obsessing like this anyway).

Besides, from the glance-through I gave Sternbergh’s article, “You Walk Wrong”, it comes off more as an advocacy for yet another more-perfect ergonomic shoe line, this time some sort of Kevlar-soled slipper. Basically an advertorial filled with claptrap, which is the general consensus from the Bryant Park Project peanut gallery.

Can we live without our shoes? I wouldn’t mind it — after I retire to some warm-weather beach somewhere near the equator (or on the Moon, by midcentury). Until then, my feet will be losing their “war” with the shoes in my closet.

The above picture is of former Spice Girl and current soccer-wife Victoria Beckham, taken by Juergen Teller as an advertisement for fashion house Marc Jacobs. This shot is fairly typical of Teller’s avant-garde approach to photography.

Two things: One, I never would have believed that Stick Spice had enough meat on her bones to represent with a pair of legs like that. And two, this disembodied-limb look is the closest thing to an appearance that she’ll ever make on this blog.

There’s a strange dichotomy going on in wedding-gown fashions today:

- On the one hand, body-conscious modern brides are opting for downright risqué outfits, designed to show off well-toned and well-tanned skin (and tattoos, even):

[Natasha] DaSilva is typical of a growing number of brides flouting convention by flaunting their curves. More vamp than virgin, many are selecting gowns that bare a generous expanse of cleavage, midsection, lower back or thigh, temptress styles that may be better suited to a gala or boudoir than to a church or ballroom…

Determined to look torrid on their wedding day, they are picking dresses modeled, say, on the one worn by Christina Aguilera, who was married in 2005 in a gown with a plummeting neckline and ruffled fishtail hem. Or maybe the hope is to emulate Sarah Jessica Parker, who, in the forthcoming film version of “Sex and the City,” spills out of the front of her wedding dress.

- At the opposite end of the blushing-bride presentation is Disney Bridal, which lets a girl walk down the aisle in as snow white a state as possible without being animated. (I’m guessing the groom who marries a Belle wannabe will have to endure Beauty and the Beast jokes all through the reception.)

Both ceremony options are fueled by a particular pop-cultural fantasy. I can’t say one is any more grown-up than the other.

Much as Monday Night Football and Terrell Owens taught up almost four years ago, you simply cannot put a black man and white woman together in American media and not have people go (pardon the pun) apeshit.

But the image is stirring up controversy, with some commentators decrying the photo as perpetuating racial stereotypes. [LeBron] James strikes what some see as a gorilla-like pose, baring his teeth, with one hand dribbling a ball and the other around [Gisele] Bundchen’s tiny waist.

It’s an image some have likened to King Kong and Fay Wray.

“It conjures up this idea of a dangerous black man,” said Tamara Walker, 29, of Philadelphia.

And in fact, some think that photographer Annie Leibovitz, who shot this April 2008 cover of Vogue, took her inspiration from the semi-famous “Destroy This Mad Brute” World War I propaganda poster, which predates King Kong.

As always, image is everything.

I was led to Russian fashion designer Denis Simachev’s website via this article about how he’s making Soviet symbolic iconography retro-chic.

Which reminds me of a storyline element out of the old “American Flagg” comic series. But I digress.

What I find more interesting is the layout of Simachev’s website. Instead of the standard vertical top-to-bottom arrangement of content on webages, each page scrolls horizontally — i.e., you use the scrollbar at the bottom of your browser window to navigate the complete page.

I’ve seen very rare instances of this. I remember David Bowie’s very first website presence, circa 1997, employed this same unconventional design arrangement. It certainly stood out for me.

A shame more sites don’t go this route. I’ve even toyed with doing it myself, if not here at PopStat then on another site. Not sure I can justify it for a largely text-driven content well, though.

Unwittingly, today I wound up wearing a tie that happened to be an exact color match with my boxer shorts: Both deep purple.

That’s a first for me.

I made the observation myself, versus having someone else point it out to me. That’s both lucky and unlucky, depending on how you consider it.

That title is not a declaration of support. Rather, it’s a simple acknowledgment of what’s becoming a horrifying fait accompli: The fauxhawk, that fake mohawk of a hairstyle, appears to be here to stay.

Why do I say this? Because I see it every single day while walking the streets of New York. It seems to have become the ‘do of choice of the twenty-something professional and semi-professional male. This, despite being tagged as passe back in 2004 and, when that didn’t stick, a declaration of jihad against it the subsequent year. Improbably, in an age when fashion fads seem to expire within months, this hair expression has survived and thrived.

Today was the topper for me. I actually spied a 50-something woman sporting a blonde fauxhawk! Somehow, the look has leapt the gender divide. There’s no stopping it now.

So go ahead, boys and girls — embrace it. Just follow the steps and look like a latter-day Ed Grimley. I’m actually glad my follicle-challenged scalp won’t allow me to join in.

Seen by me today: A guy, 20ish, walking down 8th Avenue, wearing a light-blue plaid kilt.

Yes, this is the anything-goes big city, so maybe I shouldn’t be fazed by such stand-out fashion choices. My lunchtime companion certainly wasn’t — I actually had to point this sight out to her. Maybe I took special notice because it was just above 40 degrees out, which indicates he was roughing it with the bare legs.

It didn’t occur to me that Mr. Kilt might have been a celebrity, of sorts. But indeed, the former “Dell Dude” of bygone television commercial fame has been known to show up at court appearances all kilted-up. I didn’t recognize him as such, but it’s been a few years since I’ve seen those old spots.

Last week, I was showing an out-of-town friend around the streets of uptown Manhattan when we stopped at a sidewalk handbag table. (Not my idea; I typically take a long look at the sidewalk vendor wares while walking by, but have yet to actually linger over a purchase.)

The only other customers were two older women, also checking out the faux purses. They were driving a moderately hard bargain with the guy; they finally talked him down to three bags for $100, and let my friend in on that deal so that he could get a bag for his wife.

What I found a little odd: Whenever one of the women handled one of the handbags and asked questions about it, they’d refer to it as “this Prada knockoff”, “this Gucci knockoff”, etc. They would give a little extra stress on the “knockoff” part, thus not-so-subtly making a point of that fact.

I don’t think there was any question that this cardtable-full of handbags were fakes. The guy selling them certainly didn’t make any claims to the contrary, and in fact, you’d have to be the biggest of rubes to actually believe these were authentic items being sold at rock-bottom prices. It’s an accepted fact that you’re simply looking for a passable-looking imitation in this situation.

So why did these women insist on emphasizing the “knockoff” part? I’m wondering if it wasn’t an under-the-radar negotiation tactic, both with the handbag guy and with themselves. Repeating the descriptor to the seller might help in softening him up on price. Repeating it to themselves might also have helped remind them of what they were getting, and not to get too carried away.

Of course, the third possibility occurred to me: They were trying to show off that they weren’t fooled for a second that they were haggling over designer originals, and wouldn’t even concede that with a casual shorthand like “this Prada bag”. Psychological strategies at work, even on sidewalk sales.

With the Devils already gone, and the Nets short-timing it until they move to Brooklyn, the former Continental Airlines Arena is getting a new corporately-christened name. The Meadowlands facility will now be known as Izod Center.

Lest you think the arena’s now going to be festooned with pictures of crocodiles, clue yourself into the long-ago divorce of Izod and Lacoste, with the latter taking back its reptilian shirt-logo in the split.

What’s more interesting is the fashion rivals that Izod beat out:

Izod was chosen over Jay-Z’s Rocawear and Fort Lee-based Southpole in a three-way race among “clothes horses,” in part because of its parent company’s ability to tie in extensively with the $2 billion Xanadu retail and entertainment project that will surround the Izod Center…

All three bidders made pitches to a sports authority subcommittee Monday, with rap music mogul Jay-Z making part of Rocawear’s presentation himself. Each bid was thought to be $1.4 million to $2 million annually, but the board also considered each bidder’s financial viability, as well as other qualifications beyond cash.

It was basically two hip-hip/urban-wear fashion houses versus a rather fusty oldtime clothier.

I wonder if the New Jersey authority didn’t have qualms about having a state-run facility named after a brand (either Rocawear or Southpole) closely associated with African-Americans. Was there a concern that the very name would scare away white patrons, regardless of who was playing at the venue? And would that have a domino effect, in that the only viable acts that could be booked and guaranteed a good turnout would be rap concerts? I wouldn’t be surprised if that went into the thinking.

You have to hand it to Southwest Airlines. They’ve deftly defused a potentially nagging publicity problem by co-opting the situation: They’ve re-apologized to Kyla Ebbert for threatening to kick her off a flight for wearing an “inappropriate” miniskirt, and used the incident as a jumping-off point for a self-deprecating fare-decrease sale.

You have to admire the corporate adroitness. Most companies would have buried their heads in the sand and just ridden it out, hoping the negative press would go away. Southwest used it as an opportunity to make amends and reinforce its mostly customer-friendly brand.

One thing that was lost in this telling:

Ebbert’s account, and a similar one by another woman this week, led to unfavorable news coverage and Internet chatter about Southwest. Newspaper columnists and bloggers derided the airline — which in the 1970s put its stewardesses in hot pants and called itself “The love airline” — as prudish.

That “Love Airline” was actually a double-entendre by itself. It was an oblique reference to the Wright Amendment, which restricted Southwest in flights to and from its hub at Love Field in Texas. Apparently, even then the airline was making lemonade out of lemons, which hints at an especially creative corporate culture.

I’m amused by how easily influenced I can be by some random opinion. Like this one by Schad, involving the origin and ulterior motive behind the current rage in women’s accessorized eyewear:

Ladies, I’m sick of the oversized shades. Besides just looking dumb, they make every woman look alike. I’m convinced that Paris Hilton began, or at least helped establish the trend of the big, bordering on grandma-Solar Shield-sized sunglasses because her face is so busted. The more of her face that’s covered, the better she looks.

Sure enough, after reading the above blog post, I cannot take notice of this look without thinking: I wonder what facial flaws she’s concealing. So thanks for that, Schad — one more thing to obsess about regarding the opposite sex.

Actually, I thought Paris’ fellow Simple Lifer Nicole Richie was the one synonymous with the goggle-like headgear. Although I guess even she’s diversifying her retro-shades look.

I’ve got so much body hair that, really, the coverage on my back doesn’t really register with me.

That’s not to say that it doesn’t register with other people. Believe me, I’ve heard it all. Although I’ve yet to hear that I need to invest in a Mangroomer, an alternative to waxing that’s uniquely designed:

After choosing a factory, [inventor Brett Marut] exchanged countless e-mail messages and phone calls with its staff while refining the design. They focused on finding the right angle for the razor’s central joint, eventually settling on 135 degrees — anything straighter tended to make the blade catch on folds of skin, Mr. Marut said, while smaller angles produced a coarser shave.

They also cut a thin line down the center of the joint. The cut made the joint less prone to cracking when considerable pressure is applied.

Space-age aesthetics for such scrungy job. I guess it spares a guy from enlisting a loved one to do a shearing job — that tends to kill the intimacy. Not that I’d know first-hand.

I know nothing about the upcoming SOAPnet series “The Fashionista Diaries”, nor do I care to learn.

But I’ve gotta give props to the choice of tagline:

THE REVOLUTION WILL BE ACCESSORIZED

It’s meaningless marketing-speak, of course, but still catchy. Wordplay on Gil Scott-Heron’s iconic phrase/concept “The revolution will not be televised” abounds in popular culture, but I still get a kick out of seeing new variants, regardless of application.

As you can tell from the visual aid at left, wearing the amazing C-string invisible underwear is all about strategic placement. And pubic-hair management, for aesthetic purposes.

That’s only if you’re showing it off. If you plan on wearing this wired thong underneath your streetclothes, be prepared for a wild ride:

Dressed in hipster jeans I wander gingerly downstairs. Already the pants are chafing. I rapidly realise that hipsters are the wrong item of clothing for the C-string.

I take the children to the park and fall into conversation with a pleasant-seeming couple with a child a little older than Archie.

Our children smile shyly at each other and take turns on the slide. And then Oscar, my youngest, falls down and I bend over… an apparently underwear-free mother. The couple make their excuses and leave the park quickly, glancing behind them as they leave.

I’m not sure if there’s an advantage to wearing this for the pantyline-less look, versus just going commando. As for beachwear, you won’t hear any complaints out of me if it comes into my view.

I don’t suppose the funky-looking shoes pictured above are particularly unique.

But they stood out to me, when I spied them one week ago on the A Train (en route to Airtrain and the airport). Something about the black leather paired with fluorescent-green laces and trim caught my eye. They sort of matched with the dressed-down look that the South Asian girl was wearing — and then again, sort of not.

I snapped this photo with my trusty cameraphone, instead of the Nikon D80 SLR camera I’m reviewing. One of the many situations where it’s just not practical to lug out a full-sized camera, although obviously there’s a huge quality gap.